The Love Affair
by Robin555
Summary: Love and suffering-the eternal first story from which all other stories proceed. The suffering is often two people cannot experience the same reality, regardless of wishing to. During the course of a Thanksgiving Day, then some months later, Slade experiences love and suffering as he never expected. An experiment in how much can be done with little. Dedicated to Wynja with thanks!
1. Chapter 1 Dawn

DAWN

Gray light showed through the window, high up. Reflected dimly on the ceiling. He could not see the coming sun, of course. The angle was wrong—too far above him, but he turned his head eagerly towards it, anyway. He rolled his body over as well in the direction the light came from and let himself go into it; just concentrating on breathing in and out, while he imagined the clouds parting and the bright jagged rays breaking through, stretching upward, out against the darkness, and driving it away.

How wonderful—that this should happen without his doing anything. His part was only to watch, to wait, to feel, to know. _No matter how dark the night, _his heart murmured_, light wins—light always wins. Until the very end_.

Oh, he had studied physics; he knew about the law of entropy but for now, until the very last, light wins, and he knew it. He knew it!

He took another deep cleansing breath and felt his lungs expand; his ribs move, his shoulders pull back and down. He consciously allowed his lungs to fill to his back, getting that extra space, that extra depth of air.

He stretched his legs slowly against the thin mattress and heard the chain rustle against the blanket like a little creature had slipped under the covers in the night and was now disturbed by his movements.

He shifted again, trying to be heedless of the noise, ignoring it, concentrating only on the light. _Day—what day is it? _ He thought,_ Tuesday? –No, Wednesday? Yes, yes. Wednesday. Hump day, they call it. Halfway through the workweek—if you work five days a week, of course. And hate your work_.

He lifted his arms and ran his hands through his hair, raking it back out of his eyes, combing it in a fashion with his fingers, shaking it out. He had only been awake for moments, but already, like a computer rebooting, his mind was starting to come on line. Ideas, situations, plans were firing through his brain like little electric jolts emerging from the dark. _First, control. Always first; then analysis. How did I get here, and what is best to do?_

He suddenly leaned over and kissed his own inner arm, then laid his cheek against it and whispered, "It's all right; I love you. It's all right." He wasn't sure why, but he felt it was important. Necessary, in fact. Vital.

And with the movement back, just as his lips closed, he knew it wasn't Wednesday; _it's Thursday, it's Thanksgiving! Thanksgiving Day! _He laughed. Not loud, just one quick guffaw, more like a sneeze than anything else, that shocked him at the sound. _What do I have to be thankful for? The day set aside for thanks. _

He felt his eyes start to prickle a bit at the thoughts that rose unbidden: the table, heaped with food, steaming, mounded, passed round hand to hand, red cranberry, orange and green and brown. The colors and scents mingled and swirled before him; his eyes stung. Faces around, across, smiles, laughter. His eyes kept prickling; he blinked hard, and gave out a shuttering sigh from deep within him.

Today he should wake to smells coming from the kitchen, just hints of the glories to come; he should be so loved, cherished, so wanted, so needed, so secure.

_No, not good_-he opened his eyes again and sought the light. _No, must think: blessed, today.! Blessed, how? This body, strong and this mind, clear. Plans to make; work to do; and hope. Hope in others, who love me; who care for me; who want me._

He took another deep breath and sat up. _And light, blessed in light._

He picked up the cup of water from the floor beside the cot, held it up in both hands, and raised it before him towards the sun he could not see, but that appeared brilliant and glorious in his mind. Then he lowered it and drank slowly, reverently, as if from a chalice.

Though it wasn't easy to manage with the leg iron around his left ankle, he still rose, never turning away from the light. He imagined himself bathing in it; in it covering his whole body, warm and running in streams down his chest and legs. Reviving him; renewing him.

He pulled his clothing into some rudimentary order, ran his hands back through his hair. _Blessed in light, in day_. He reached back over, dripped the tip of his finger in the cup, taking the last tiny bit of moisture from the bottom and slowly marked a cross on his chest. Beginning with the hollow at the base of his throat and stretching down across his breastbone. Then left to right across his chest.

He raised his eyes to the light again and took another deep breath.

He heard the door handle turning slowly, but did not even turn his head towards the sound.


	2. Chapter 2 Zenith

ZENITH

The Laffite-Rothschild contrasted strangely with the scratched and dented Formica tabletop the large wine glasses rested upon.

"It's hardly Thanksgiving fare, my friend. I apologize." Slade leaned across the table towards a lean older man with keen eyes that missed nothing.

"You need not. I vastly prefer this noonday repast to overdone turkey and gummy stuffing, possibly laced with salmonella. 1982, I believe?"

"Yes."

"Ah, a very fine vintage. It was a wonderful year in France, that year. So perfect, warm, lingering."

"It was."

"I find it difficult to overrate this vintage," the man leaned back and studied the wine in his glass, " though others may differ. Of course, '29 is has been compared, but it is far past its prime now. Ridiculously over-priced, at the last auction, in Paris, I believe, a bottle of Bordeaux of that vintage went for over four thousand dollars a bottle, if I am not mistaken, and that not even for a Premier Cru. Disgusting! Fools, who have too much money and wish only to impress."

"With you, they would fail," Slade replied.

"Oh, no, on the contrary, I would be very impressed, and express myself so! I would immediately seek a business relationship, knowing how easily such a person could be manipulated."

Both laughed.

The lean man continued, "I always enjoy a wine with a crystal glass worthy of it. These are well matched. Ah, France, France."

"Thank you." The glass was refilled and several pieces of French bread and a slice of cheese on a plate slid across the rough table like a rook to queen bishop 4 in a hotly contested game of chess. "I find pear to go well with this wine. Would you care for some?"

"Anjou?"

"Of course."

The man inclined his head slightly, and a wedge of pear was added to his plate. Both raised their glasses to each other again and then drank.

The hawk-faced man spoke, in a low voice, casually as if it were the most accidental and unimportant of after-thoughts, "You cannot keep him, you know."

A fist struck the table, rattling the glasses. "How dare you tell me what I can and cannot do! I can do whatever I want!"

There was a long pause. The lean man did not stir, but meditated into his wine. Slade's fist unclenched, slowly, and flattened onto the scarred surface, then curled around the other wine glass.

"Are you quite through?" the man asked.

"I think so." Slade replied, " Can't be certain I won't do it again, though. Or worse."

"Then I shall be on my guard. I am fully sympathetic with your uber-male propensities. But doesn't it, at times, become a burden dominating every encounter?"

"Isn't it an equal burden to be so being eternally urbane?"

"We know each other too well. And yes, it is, though I believe I have become so habituated to it, that it is rather burdensome to relieve myself of the burden and adopt another persona."

"Let me unpack that sentence. Why can't I?"

"Unburden yourself? Or keep him? Are we returning to my previous statement of impossibility? Or would you prefer that I discourse at some length on our differing talents; yours with arms, mine with philosophy?"

"Four questions in that, and not an answer among them. So why don't I give you a question, or two, counting the one I am saying now? Why don't you spare us both the lengthy discourse, and give me a straight answer?"

"And on which subject would you wish such a bald response? The only question that you really care about here?"

"That's two more questions and no answers yet."

The lean man smiled across the table, "Do you truly wish me to elaborate?"

"Yes, no, yes—of course," Slade hesitated for a fraction of a second, "But not yet. Have you seen him?"

"No, I prefer to hear your description, so he can live in my mind's eye. One is so often disappointed by reality."

Slade nodded his head in acknowledgment of the witticism, "He would not disappoint you. He is exquisite. He reminds me of a katana, slender strength, thin and springy, folded steel, deceptively sleek, belying its deadliness." He set down his glass and slid it back and forth in front of him, giving a space for thought. The bottom of the glass grating ever so slightly against the scratched surface. "No, perhaps he is not a full _katana,_ not yet. At present he is more like a _tanto_, the short sword of the samurai."

"Be careful, my friend, the _tanto_ was used, you know, for _hara-kiri."_

Slade leaned forward forcefully, "Yes, for lack of devotion to one's master."

The lean man did not flinch. He merely replied, "Or to demonstrate sincerity. And do you acknowledge a master, Slade, or are you, perhaps, excessively sincere?"

"Oh, I am sincere. My admiration is unbounded for him, though I do not know of anyone I would see as a master."

"Not even myself! I am insulted, though I suspected as much."

Both laughed again raised glasses to each other across the table and drank.

"So—tell me about your unbounded admiration, Slade, and then, perhaps, I will tell you my reason for asserting your inability, even at my own peril."

"At last, a statement! I feel as if I had climbed a mountain! Very well. First, There is talent, certainly, and ability, besides intelligence and even cunning, youthful, of course, transparent, but still there. It can be developed and encouraged. He is a survivor, I believe, with a well of untapped potential. "

"I see."

"He is not upset, for instance, even now in his apparently hopeless position. He hardly seemed to notice me, this morning. He was standing looking up towards the window; perfectly calm and at ease. He didn't even look towards me when I opened the door. That was surprising, He is hardly the cringing prisoner. I wonder if he perhaps welcomes this captivity."

"Were you hoping he would be?"

"Cringing? I don't know. Maybe. But I might welcome the challenge of breaking him. Not permanently, of course," Slade studied the wine again, "Physically he is perfection."

"The boy is beautiful—a common saying on Greek _kylix _of the Classical Period. You really should pay more attention to other things than the latest type of bullets, you know."

"Perhaps I should, with such interesting things as you mention. Do go on; though I'm certain you will."

The dark eyes gleamed at Slade, and the silken voice continued, "The Ancient world appreciated such sentiments. One of those many losses to the coming of Christianity, along with gladiatorial contests and public baths and crucifixions." For an instant the sophisticated mask dropped, and the man stared directly and questioningly into Slade's face.

Slade leered, "I do not intend to crucify him, you may rest assured. Or to place him in a gladiatorial contest, except a bit of sparring with me, perhaps. Though I might bathe him. Yes, he is beautiful, exquisite. And, of course, I can do so much for him, as well."

"Every time I am gifted with paeans to the beauty of some particular person and offers of assistance to that person, I seem always to hear next the faint rustle of clothes being removed, or, in these more crass times, the stealthy slide of a zipper."

Slade glared at him, for a moment, then turned his face away, "It's no one's business but mine."

"No, it isn't. Still you choose to discuss it here. That also is your choice. Have you raped him, yet?"

"No. I thought about it, this morning, of course. He was just standing there, so straight, shoulders back, breathing deeply, that dark hair rumpled from sleep. He seemed serene, calm in that first light. I barely spoke to him, though." Slade shook his head in apparent puzzlement.

"Do you plan to force him?"

"Not plan, no. I thought, perhaps, eventually-he would—"

"He would be defeated by you, in one of your little sparring sessions, bow to your superiority and fall into your arms, with a little sigh?"

Slade did not reply, but nodded slightly in agreement without looking at his interlocutor. The far wall seemed to be of intense interest.

"A fantasy," the man replied, "The classic fantasy. And particularly appealing to you in your lighter moments. Your darker ones are not quite so pleasant, and perhaps are more likely to come true, my friend. You are not Jupiter, nor he, Ganymede. He will resist. You will be forced to drastic measures."

There was another long, long pause in the conversation.

"You scorn me?" Slade raised his head menacingly, his voice filled with building heat.

The hawk-face man leaned back, spread his hands before him, displaying both palms, then casually twirled one hand in the air across the table, "No, I do not at all. I understand you, admire you, and wish to do you good."

Slade nodded, waited. "And a wise man listens. I think I am wise. So tell me, then, finally, why can't I keep him?"

"Allow me to rephrase: you cannot keep _him_." He reached forward and picked up the glass before him, and held it up to the light. The wine within, rich deep purple, trembled slightly, wavering in beautiful invitation. " In this case, I am reminded of a rare wine, this very one, for instance. It is fully mature, but if well stored, will, I believe, improve with additional cellaring."

"Yes, it may."

"Do you catch my drift?"

"Perhaps."

"Now you may keep the bottle, of course, but you may not; no, not even you! Not even you, my friend, with all your skill and ability, can both keep the wine and drink it." He took a sip, "You must break the seal to drink it. And as soon as you have drunk it, its untasted beauty, as well as its potential, is gone, vanished. You can keep the bottle, as a memory, but not the wine. Never the wine! Do not deceive yourself, my friend. Not even you can keep him as he is now."

Slade's hand clenched again. The crystal stem he held shattering, as the splashes of deep purple exploded onto the table. Sweeping the table with one tremendous blow of his fist and forearm, he sent shards of glass and dishes mixed with food flying in all directions. The wine bottle clunked onto the floor with a heavy thud and broke.

"You know the way out," he shouted over his shoulder, as he strode out, viciously kicking the pieces of the bottle into the wall with his boots.


	3. Chapter 3 Dusk

DUSK

I stand and gaze at him.

All afternoon, I watch him, as he stands. He sits, he turns his head towards the light far above. The light he cannot really see, except by reflection off the ceiling. Still, he seeks it. He has so little to look at, besides the walls.

If only he could see his own reflection—But I can see him—he is the light; he makes even this place bright, just by his presence. His grossest moment is wonderful to me. His standing, a miracle.

I put my hand against the wall, bite my knuckles, press so hard against the metal I think my hand will go through it. Sometimes I lean my head, but only for a moment, because that means I must take my eyes from him—and I do not want to miss a moment. Who knows if I will have another?

I have killed so many—it doesn't matter now. Strangled or impaled or shot—did they deserve it? Some, many, perhaps most, did. But some did not—in the way, or by accident—it doesn't matter now.

Only this moment matters—the world falls away and there is only watcher and watched—nothing else but this silent eternal moment.

He does not know—I do not want him to know. The one-way glass hides it all. He may suspect—at times he looks toward the door, half-looks, trying to seem as though he doesn't—and I see a shadow of fear cross his face. He hides it quickly; he turns away. So young. So alone. And yet, so brave, still.

His fear only makes me love him more; I do not lie to myself, it feeds my vanity, as well. And I could be the source of his comfort as well. His protection; his all! He would fall down and worship me and I would give him all my kingdom and then, myself!

They think I am superhuman; I will be if I can get through this!

He has been fed—not much—not elaborate—certainly nothing for this holiday, but little enough so that he knows what a captivity he is in for. Enough so he fears that each day it might be less and less.

I know this is for now, he eats slowly and carefully, tasting each morsel, not missing a crumb, draining water without leaving even a drop. Often he looks up to the light and I wonder what he is thinking. I wish I could know. It is like a ritual for him-a tiny taste, a long look up, a sip, a long look up. He is saving everything.

I am saving, too. I cannot have him. I can watch him this afternoon. That is all I have. He watches a tiny patch of light; I watch him.

The light is so faint he does not cast a shadow on the floor—only in me. His shadow hovers in my heart and then joins with my larger, darker one—it is the only touching we share.

Once, once he shudders—I see it—though he has his back to the door—it is all I can do not to rush through. But what would I do when I got there? Do I trust myself? Could I not start down that road that would destroy him? Destroy us both? I do not know—and so I wait and watch. All afternoon.

It is all I can do not to rush in and rip his clothes off so I can memorize him. But I dare not, for then it would begin.

He has not been freed. I hate it; I love it, knowing he is mine. I cannot keep him; I cannot keep him—but the chain keeps him. Bless it—as long as it caresses his ankle, he is mine!

With my eyes—I run my hand along his cheek, pick up a strand of his hair, and brush it back. I touch his upper arm and trace the edge of his shoulder joint.

I ache for him and hesitate.

I am afraid—for the first time in many years. I have made so many others afraid and enjoyed it. Now I am fearful, of what? Myself or him? I am not sure. Perhaps both.

I must not kill us both. I must never kill him. I could, I might; I must not! I could!

I have had others—what are they now? Nothing to this, to him, nothing. I would give it all up—I would give myself up, for him.

And then he draws a deep breath, the shadows are coming on, now, the light is fading. Even that dim light he can barely see is going.

He looks up, searching, towards the darkness, and as the glaring bulb overhead automatically comes on, I see despair wash across his face when he knows the light is truly, completely, gone, now.

He lets his head fall forward, and a sob shakes him, like a physical thing. His whole body vibrates with it. No tears—I could not see them if they were falling, instead his hair falls forward about his face like a dark curtain.

I can bear no more—it seems a crime against the universe that he should—I cannot keep him; I cannot keep him. I cannot keep him. It has become my heartbeat, now.

I turn the door handle; he starts, trying not to show—as if I should not notice he is surprised or that he is deeply afraid! I know what fear looks like.

I speak curtly, roughly, "You're going back—now." I try to make it sound disgusted, as if he had not been right, somehow. Insufficient for my plans. A waste of my time and worthy only of being returned to where he was captured. Not even worth the trouble of being hurt or killed.

He does not speak. I am glad; if he did, I am not sure if—

He nods. That is all.

I want to free him myself, to touch that chain. I do not. I motion others in, through the door to do the work my hands long to do. I turn away. I say only, over my shoulder as I walk away, "Perhaps, someday. I will wait."

I wonder if he is puzzled. I wonder if he suspects. I know him, though. He will not forget, and he will think of me. Often.

It is enough. I have had the courage, the discipline, the wisdom to place this rare, perfect vintage in the cellar, unopened, untouched, for a while. "For a while only," I tell myself. It is a comfort.


	4. Chapter 4 Night

NIGHT

So funny—you never know what you'll want afterwards.

I thought the first thing I'd want was a hot shower with the temperature set one degree below scald, and then a big plate of turkey and dressing, heavy on the cranberry sauce, but it wasn't.

Oh, I got the shower, all right, and it was a heck of a lot better than the light that was all I had to wash in this morning. Say what you want, hot water feels pretty great, though I wasn't dirty or even sweaty. I just wanted to get that place off me!

That darn chain! Well, I feel a lot stronger about slavery now! Maybe I'd even have something to add to a discussion if one came up. Maybe not. There's something about it I don't want to talk about; freely, that is.

That's why the first thing I wanted surprised me: a big mug of coffee and a few minutes alone here in my room, before the rejoicing gets going good. I didn't even turn the light on! You'd think I would have had enough of alone—just sitting there all day—trying to keep it together—don't know that I did such a good job, though. There towards the end, I almost let it get away from me.

I started out good, but—guess I let my thoughts go too much. It was spooky; that damn gray door—who knew what could come through? Or whether it would ever open again?

God, I could think up a million things—all of them, bad—some, really bad—some, fucking terrifying! Nobody wants a broken bone or knocked-out tooth, I don't care how tough! Or to starve to death or die of thirst.

And then him—scary, though I don't think I showed it, at all. I stood right up and looked at him that second time! Proud of that, but it was hard.

But him, besides his size, he could have knocked me down in a heartbeat, and then kicked me all over the place. Hell, I would have bounced off walls like a tethered soccer ball!

Man, this coffee tastes great.

Don't guess there was much spring in that chain, though. I probably wouldn't have gone far.

I thought he would. I braced myself—at least for something. I only saw him twice—scary—shit, I'm surprised I didn't need that shower, but not for my hair, ha! —Especially that second time. He came in—stalked in—like he does—stomping those boots. I noticed them that time for some reason; maybe I thought I was going to get much better acquainted with them real soon!

And he just stood there—almost shaking-like he—that's when I got really scared. Like he was holding himself back from knocking me senseless!

Yeah, if I'm honest, I thought he might kill me!

All I remember was that stare at me—pure disgust. Something hadn't worked out like he planned. I think he was revolted. He loathed me, hated me. No, that's too strong a word. It wasn't that personal. He just couldn't be bothered with something as worthless, useless to him as me. I'm sure of that part. Absolutely sure!

Maybe he had bought all the hype about me and then found out the truth and knew he'd been cheated, big time!

But what puzzles me still—I think about it and I guess I will for a while—my mind goes back to what he said when he turned away—it's like I am seeing it again—every detail in slow motion—he turned away on his heel, quick like he does—but I'm seeing it slow and quick too, at the same time, and I remember—I'm trying to analyze this—I need to—remember-

I remember kind of sighing with relief, 'cause you generally don't turn your back on someone you're going to kick or knock in the face. Maybe he heard me, I don't know. Maybe I was shaking a little myself, even though I was trying hard to keep it down. I knew I didn't have a chance—not like things were. I was about as dangerous as a tied-up kitten. Oh, I could have hit, sure—but—anyhow, I'd damn well have tried!

It was what he said. He put one foot forward, quick, like he couldn't get away from me fast enough, striding away, and he said, "Perhaps, someday. I will wait."

What the hell? Someday? I have no idea—he'll wait? For what? Damn, what's he think he's doing, making a date? Ha!

Double damn, my plans sure don't include getting in anything like that again! Hell, I'm really going to have to get some distance on today not to run like a rabbit if I even hear his name again!

Memo to self—have to get that under control, ASAP.

But, I doubt he'll look for me, either—not someone so repulsive and useless you can't even be bothered to look at for more than two seconds and even that almost makes you nauseated! I'll probably never have to worry about him again; he's had his fill of me!

This coffee tastes so good—so good. The festivities seem to be heating up across the hall. I hear my name being chanted by many voices. Time. I stand up, put down my wonderful mug, and walk out of darkness towards the light.


	5. Chapter 5 Midnight

MIDNIGHT

Dark, very dark, I will not stumble, though. I know every inch of this place. I do not need any light.

This night—tossing and turning, strange visions flying across my mind—I am looking for something, searching through long streets that grow longer and longer as I walk. A mission. A goal. Endless streets, endless corners and curbs, beneath a strange yellow sky. Just as I realize the search is hopeless, whatever I am searching for does not exist; I start awake in a cold sweat.

Down the blackened hall, through the door, to this doubly dark room, and then towards the cot—five steps, no more. My hand finds it instantly, without a mistake, and I sit, though it creaks and trembles beneath my weight.

They wanted to take it away—I said no.

I think I hit someone.

I am not sure.

Sitting just where he sat, I look up into the absolute darkness.

It is many hours 'til dawn.

I wait.


	6. Chapter 6 Six Months Later

**SIX MONTHS LATER**

The first message read: "If you recall our last conversation, you asked me to let you know how my project was going. Since we now have triple encrypted with multiple proxy servers, I can safely keep you abreast of the proceedings. Of course, I am handicapped in jousting at words with you. Who would not be? But the next time you are near, I will remember these exchanges and then offer you the opportunity of real jousting with very sharp lances. And I will not take 'no' for an answer. I look forward to the contest. If you wish to consider this a warning, that is your privilege."

The reply read: "My friend, I am delighted to continue our conversation in this electronic medium. Despite its artificiality, it does have its appeal. Nor do I forget your not-so-veiled warning. I have no wish to meet you on any field of battle, besides that of wits. It is the only place in which I would flatter myself that I might, in my own humble way, come in any way near your prowess. I will remain candid in our exchanges. I would hardly think you should wish me to be otherwise; however, I will be respectful, naturally. I would ask you to tell me about the boy, but I doubt that is necessary, either."

The next reply read: "My project is working surprising well. He resists, as you said he would, but he is adapting, as I had hoped he would. It has only been four days, and so far our activities have consisted of a few sparring sessions. He is woefully inadequate with firearms, I am sorry to say. He does know the sword, but only as a defensive weapon, not really in offense, yet. In other areas, I am taking things slowly; perhaps, I remember your advice."

The reply read: "I am deeply flattered that you would even consider my humble advice. I did not, quite frankly, expect you to do so. I presume you are referring to my long-held dictum that a great vintage should be sipped with great care and thought, not guzzled? And that such an event should be a great occasion, and celebrated?"

The reply read: "I am. As I told you, a wise man listens. Perhaps I have learned something from my many years. The wine has not yet even been taken from the cellar, to say nothing of being uncorked."

The reply read: "Excellent. Though I doubt you will share this particular bottle, still I wish you joy of the tasting. And may it be a lingering as well as a pleasurable experience."

Slade hit the off button, stood up from the computer and straightened his shoulders, pulling himself to his full height. _Well, this is fun," _he thought_, " no doubt, and a change of pace, but—the man is so artificial. How can he endure himself? I always feel sticky after a talk with him, like I'd just walked through a swamp! _

He stretched again, and strode towards the door, the curious image in his mind, coming from he knew not where, simply appearing before his mind's eye, of tangled, dark locks of hair. For just a moment, he was not even aware whence it came or why. He shook his head, smiled and kept walking.


	7. Chapter 7 The Next Day

THE NEXT DAY

I stand before him.

We face. Swords drawn between us.

I react automatically; my mind goes blank, only my body moves, thrust, block, parry. There is no thought, simply body melding into action. I do not need to think, but do! Weight forward on the balls of my feet; like a cat, ready to go in any direction, shift and turn, whirling strike to either side, swift and unheralded.

And yet he moves. With grace, such grace!

I could strike him, though not easily. But I do not. He will know if I pull my thrusts, so I am careful, despite the flow. I still govern myself. I will not hit him with full power; I will not, I must not thrust the sword into my own heart!

We both set back, by mutual consent, a breathing space.

I do not need it as much as he does, but I know he is calculating every second. He is never as he appears. He analyzes my breath, my stance, the room, the flooring, and his own position. Thinking, even as he seeks to appear fatigued.

I do not believe he is as he wants me to believe; of course he isn't. I know; I understand. I would do the same. I have done the same. Brave, brave!

It is a Zen moment. The two of us standing completely still: breathing, focused on each other.

I wait—I have waited so long, but I can wait still longer. I am a hunter—patient.

He is like a statue come to life; slim hips, muscled legs, but still a bit ungainly. His feet too large, in that adolescent way, in preparation to support the body that is to come. His hair curls a bit, from exercise, tangled and dark. His upper lip glistens with sweat. His chest rises and falls quickly, now slowing and deepening as he rests. As our moment goes on and on, stretching. To infinity, perhaps?

He wonders my intention. I can see it in his eyes. He gives nothing away, but I know that he is wondering and planning. Seeking how to win. And he knows I know. But he does not know what I know. Not yet.

But there is something; some glimmer in his eyes? Do I imagine it? Willful projection? Something even deeper. Hidden beneath that glorious breathing marble come to life, beneath that perfect imperfection.

I step back farther; though I do not let my guard down for a moment. I will not be deceived; that is too dangerous for both of us. He does not know the real danger; I do. The danger is myself. I might react without thinking!

At the thought, I know it is time to stop.

I nod and trust myself with one word: "Good."

But he does not know how good, how very, very good the ache I feel. Perhaps he may have the faintest glimmer. Soon! Soon!

I wish I could hear the debate within him; the denials; the reasoning. But that is denied me. I can only wish I could!


	8. Chapter 8 Final Correspondence

FINAL CORRESPONDENCE

The first e-mail read: "You will not be receiving any messages from me. I have urgent, potentially profitable business in several places that will require my attention. S."

The reply read:" I am always delighted to hear of profitable endeavors and offer with deepest respect any facilitation I can, in my humble way, supply. "

The reply read: "Always out for a buck."

The reply read: "Life has taught me that money often scorned, but rarely turned down."

The reply read: "Yes, true. I will remember your offer."

The reply read: "There is one other thing—you have not informed me, and I would, of course, be honored if you did, about your recent project."

The reply read: "No intention of honoring you, but since you have asked—he is gone."

The reply read: "Gone? Do you mean he has taken the proverbial _eternal road_?"

The reply read: "No."

The reply read: "I really must ask, unless I am endangering my own, that is, unless I am placing my feet on the same road?"

The reply read: "Only if you are too insistent."

The reply read: "I am discretion and caution itself."

The reply read: "See that you are. I let him go. He bored me."

Then the screen went blank.


	9. Chapter 9 Finis

FINIS

I stand up from the screen and walk away. Trash the thing, just as all these other things will be. Nothing to trace and a fresh start, anyway.

But before it begins, I find my steps going towards his room. Our—no, his. His.

And when I go to the door, it all comes back. We had just finished sparring; he is sitting there, on the cot. Sweat glistening on his forehead and around each temple, shining, golden against that marble skin.

He looks up at me, expectant, and raises a water bottle to his lips. That column of a throat the pulse beat through the skin like a gentle tick of time, beat, beat—two steps—I cross that infinite space and without knowing how, I have him in my arms.

I cannot look him in the face for fear—yes, fear. I have said it, even to myself. What will he do? I cannot even think beyond that—to what will I do, then? I cannot-

But I must! I breathe deeply, meet his eyes. Wide and staring, blue, so young and clear.

Those lips relax, then lift. Teeth like pearls.

"You know," I whisper.

"Yeah."

The cot shutters and then collapses, splinters onto the floor. We do not care.

Deep passionate kisses. I cannot get enough I am drinking him down like water in the dessert; like a feast after starvation; like a fire after freezing in snow; like air after choking. Deep deep and never, never enough.

Then more, pushing my weight on top of him. The floor is hard but he is strong and young, and I have waited so long.

For once, I am losing myself, exactly as if I had jumped off a cliff after standing on it for hours.

Free-fall.

I am lost!

I am found!

Search for me no more!

He guides me; he places my hand under his hips; I want to enter him all in a rush, but his hand stops me.

"I haven't—"

"I know. Just easy now." I do not feel easy—I have never felt less easy. It is like the words come from someone else speaking in my voice. It shocks me to hear them. They sound so loud.

"Okay." His voice is soft, trusting almost.

Is it a ruse? I have no time for softness—urgent is all I feel—now—now. Somehow I stop, long enough for some thing, lotion, snatched from where my jacket lies on the floor beside us. I am barely aware of my hand holding it. I should ask—I should-I don't.

And second later it begins, slow—so slow—so wonderful—heat and warmth and close—close beyond words—only moans.

My hips thrusting, rocking, back and forth. Then for a few seconds, utterly beyond thought.

When I come back and open my eyes, I am shocked to see him there, looking at me, quietly. I had forgotten he was there.

"Are you all right?" I ask.

He nods, but does not speak. His eyes are big and somehow shaded, darkened.

I roll away and slip my hand between us and begin to stroke him. It takes a few moments, not long, but a few. He responds and soon is lost himself in feeling. I wait and watch his face; I had not realized—

He drops off for an instant—the reaction of youth. Release, then sleep.

When he opens his eyes again, I wait.

"Oh." He says. Just that—nothing more—just "oh." I wait.

He does not move or look at me again. He takes a shaky breath with a catch in his throat.

"Are you all right?" I ask against my will. I had wanted him to speak first.

He nods, barely. Still no look. "I thought maybe—I thought you didn't like me."

"Why?"

"Because you wouldn't speak to me; you looked disgusted."

"That's not what I felt."

"I was scared, anyway." It is hard for him to say, but he can say it now. He swallows and adds, "I thought you wanted to kill me."

"No, no."

His hand reaches up, like he would touch my face, but is afraid. His touch is like electricity. I cannot get enough of him again, but this time the kisses are slower, less desperate. I feel him relax in my arms; I feel myself relax in his.

The second time is easier.

He sleeps again. This time I study his body, but he does not stir. Not even when I slip my hand down his flat stomach, his relaxed shaft fallen to one side, and cup him.

I think, as I hold him there, in this most intimate of moments, of Whitman's lines, (though I am no reader of poetry), "nest of guarded duplicate eggs! It shall be you! Hands I have taken, face I have kiss'd, mortal I have ever touch'd, it shall be you!"

From years ago, I remember those words in some dim corner of my mind—I remember—was it prophetic? Did I, even then, know this moment would come? Did I create this moment myself, far in the past, before this sleeping beauty existed? Is he only a mirror of myself? Is he only my creation?

He turns, still in sleep, perhaps unconsciously protecting himself. My hand moves away. And that is all.

When he wakes, later, he is mortal again. Just a gangly teenager with a grin, no more.

I raised him to the skies, endowed him with all my projected fantasies, but what is he, really? Just a dream I created and am now awakened from. He would not understand one word of what I have been thinking.

"Anything to eat?" he asks.

He crams some hamburger into his mouth, I watch him chew like a hungry hound, bending over his messy food. His feet are too big; his hair, too spiky. He wipes his hand backwards across his mouth and laughs, "Boy, I was starved."

I cannot bear to see this—this fall from the heights to the banal. Already I am feeling this sense will go on and could become dangerous.

I stand here, now, remembering it all, playing it over in my mind as I look at the empty, shattered cot, the tumbled blankets, his eyes, "It shall be you, " I whisper, to no one, to an empty room.


End file.
